Dear Arlo: Adventures in Dadding: Adventures in Dadding, #2

By Tom Kreffer

'A funny and heart-warming daddy diary' – My Baba

'Absolutely brilliant' – (not so) Secret Dads Business

'Honest and incredibly relatable' – Not Half Dad Podcast

 

It begins immediately. 

 

There's no transition period, no trial run, no supervised training, no e-learning module and no simulation that you can f**k up as many times as you need to until you get it right. 

 

As soon as the midwife hands you your newborn baby, you are responsible for keeping it alive.

 

Picking up moments after Dear Dory ends, Dear Arlo: Adventures in Dadding continues the story of one dad and his journal as he strives to survive the first year of parenthood, blundering his way through bottle-sterilising, night feeds and some cataclysmic nappy changes – all while a pandemic sweeps across the planet. 

 

WARNING: ONCE AGAIN, THIS BOOK CONTAINS A LOT OF SWEARING

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Kreffer
• Release date: Sep 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781838222581

Book preview

Tom_Kreffer_eBook_Cover.jpg

‘An honest and incredibly relatable look at one dad’s journey during his first year of fatherhood’

Not Half Dad Podcast

‘Absolutely brilliant. A hilarious and accurate insight to the ups and downs of first-time fatherhood’

(not so) Secret Dads Business

‘A funny and heart-warming daddy diary. A great gift for any expectant father’

Ellie, Editor My Baba

‘Calling all parents – this is a must read’

MANtenatal

‘A no-holds-barred memoir that gives true insight into what parenting can be like’

Reedsy Discovery

‘An outrageously cute read … captures the emotions and the roller coaster ride of a newbie father perfectly’

Mary Anthony, Au Rendezvous Podcast

‘A witty and honest look at the ups and downs of fatherhood’

Working Dads

'Be prepared to stifle giggles in your pillow and to be touched by thoughtful insights on parenting from the underrepresented point-of-view of a first-time dad'

Laura Miller, The Library Laura Podcast

‘Simply delicious, an easy read for all parents’

Babyhour Podcast

Charlie Cat Books

Kemp House, 160 City Road

London, EC1V 2NX

First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Charlie Cat Books

Copyright © 2021 Tom Kreffer

All rights reserved.

www.tomkreffer.com

Tom Kreffer has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act 1988.

No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

Cover Design and layout by MiblArt.

Illustrations and cover artwork by Chandana Wanasekara.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-1-8382225-8-1

For Arlo

My son – my teacher – my small-sized buddy

Also by Tom Kreffer

Adventures in Dadding

DEAR DORY: JOURNAL OF A SOON-TO-BE FIRST-TIME DAD

TODDLER INC. (coming 2022)

Table of Contents

Before we get started ...

November

December

January

February

March

April

May

June

July

August

September

October

November (Again)

Acknowledgements

A Note From The Author

About Tom Kreffer

Want Free Stuff?

Before we get started ...

It’s worth pointing out a few things that this book is not, in the hope of reducing the number of complaints from parents telling me that I don’t know what I’m doing.

Because I don’t know what I’m doing.

I haven’t written this as a guidebook on how to look after a baby. And I certainly don’t believe that every decision I made as a father during the first year was the right one.

If my first book, Dear Dory, was an insight into the experiences of a first-time father bumbling his way towards parenthood, then Dear Arlo is an insight into that same father bumbling through his first year of parenthood – 70 per cent of which he spent winging it with his partner.

When your midwife hands you your newborn baby, she’s also handing you an invisible contract that you mentally sign when you hold your child for the first time. It’s a contract that says you agree to be responsible for that child’s safety, to love them, to care for them, to share with them everything that you know, so that they can forge their way in the world without repeating your mistakes. But not once anywhere on that contract does it say you have to be perfect, or that you can’t make errors – a good job, otherwise I’d have multiple lawsuits on my hands.

Life is spectacularly precious, and I can think of no higher honour than being a dad.

Enjoy!

PS: if you thought the profanity was too much in Dear Dory, it’s probably worth regifting this copy of Dear Arlo immediately, because I use a lot of profanity in this book too. Like, a fucking lot. Fucking tons, in fact. What? You try and refrain from dropping a few F-bombs when you’ve had as little sleep as I’ve had this year.

November

Happy Birthday

Tuesday, 19 November 2019

0 days old

Stillness.

Peace.

Calm.

Love.

There exists no human experience that will elevate you higher than the first time you hold your newborn baby in your arms. I am certain of this. Hopefully, you will experience it for yourself one day.

A few minutes ago, at 4.26 p.m., you were born. I’m sitting, holding you in my arms.

Time has reached a standstill.

You are the CPR machine that I never knew I needed.

You’re awake, staring into my eyes, alert for someone who’s minutes old. Your gaze is filled with endless curiosity.

Mine is filled with wonderment.

I could spend the rest of my life trying to etch this experience into words, but a lifetime’s commitment to such a task could only ever result in failure. What I will say is that at this exact moment my life is in a state of impenetrable tranquillity.

It’s difficult to see it, but you have an almost transparent, cloudy film over your left eye. I’m not sure what it is: possible remnants of your former lodgings perhaps.

Your arrival in our lives has been dramatic. It’s why Mummy is lying on a bed nearby while doctors repair the incision that was made below her tummy to retrieve you, by way of an emergency C-section. Don’t worry about Mummy, though. Her durability makes diamonds seem like the biscuit base of a cheesecake.

Until 4.26 p.m., we called you Dory – your pre-birth name. Now we know you’re a boy, we’ve named you Arlo, and you are the most beautiful baby boy – a biological marvel. People say parents are biased about how cute their babies are. I agree they are, but that doesn’t mean that some parents don’t make beautiful babies, and you are one of them, Arlo.

The midwife, who also happens to be a friend of ours, Rebecca, says you look like your mother, but I can’t recognise either of us in you yet. In my defence, you are only a few minutes old, my eyes are misty and my emotional state is packing enough energy to fuel eight return trips to the moon.

I stand up so that I can lay you on Mummy’s chest. As I do, I catch an unwanted glimpse behind the curtain (called a ‘sterile drape’) that was erected over Mummy ahead of the surgery. The curtain had a dual purpose: it helped keep the operating environment (Mummy’s tummy) sterile, and it prevented the soon-to-be parents from seeing the doctor slice Mummy open – you risk seeing more than you need or want to if you stand up, which of course is what I’ve just done.

The surgery team are progressing through their repairs, but they still have a long way to go. In my peripheral vision I can see silver instruments flashing under high-intensity LED light bulbs, quick-moving hands wrapped in blue surgical gloves, and blood. A lot of blood.

I avert my gaze before the image can solidify, and I focus my attention instead on my family.

My amazing family.

And to think we were told that the chances of making a baby naturally were slim to none.

More time passes. Nothing can penetrate this bubble. But then ...

‘Would Daddy like to get Arlo changed?’ says someone in the room.

What?

Panic.

Anxiety.

Fear.

Imagine you’re Sleeping Beauty. You’ve woken up and experienced love at first sight – you can’t describe the sensation, but you feel like you’re connecting with the world on a spiritual level. And then someone severs that connection by swinging a spiked mace right up into your nether regions.

We don’t jump right into this parenthood gig ... do we? Isn’t there some sort of transition phase for new parents?

Before I can begin listing reasons why this is a terrible idea, someone lifts you away from Mummy and gently lays you down in a cot, which is then wheeled over to me while someone else hands me your nappy-changing bag.

I now have a baby and baby clothes. I have everything I need apart from confidence and experience.

My hands are shaking. I try and hide it. It’s not that I don’t want to do this – on the contrary, nothing would give me more pleasure than being the first one to dress you. It’s an honour, and there exists only one opportunity to dress your first child for the first time, but I’ve hardly slept in three days, I’ve watched Mummy go ten rounds in the ring with life, I’ve just held you myself for the first time and I’m an emotional wreck. I’m surprised that I’m being allowed to operate a few-minutes-old baby, given my serious lack of qualifications and current mental state.

But everyone in the room is smiling at me – encouraging me. I can’t comprehend if they’re all sadists or if they’re unable to appreciate what’s going on inside my head.

Surely they know what I’m feeling. They see this every day.

Am I a terrible person for wishing a patient in another room to go into cardiac arrest so that the population of spectators is thinned out a bit? Probably.

I guess this is it, then.

Fatherhood begins today.

Right now.

There’s no transition period, no trial run, no supervised training, no e-learning module you can consult, and no simulation that you can fuck up as many times as you need to until you get it right. This is now my life. I’m a dad, and your upkeep is my responsibility. Besides, how the fuck can I bow out of something like this when I’ve just watched Mummy go through what she’s gone through over the last hour, three days, nine months?

So I mentally sign the employment contract that’s hanging in front of me, and then I mentally travel to the offices of Dadding Inc. I meet a friendly smiling receptionist, Julie, who confirms I’ve been successfully registered on to the system, and that I’m now an official employee of Dadding Inc. She tells me not to be nervous, wishes me luck, and then she hands me my work-pass badge. I swipe it through the scanner. It beeps and the turnstile clicks into place, telling me that access to my new office has been granted.

I pass through and officially commence my dadding job, the one I’ll have for the rest of my life, and one that begins immediately as I exit the world of the metaphorical and return to the land of the literal.

One baby, one nappy-changing bag. I can do this.

Here we go.

I put your outfit ready to one side. Then I extract from the bag a clean nappy that’s marginally bigger than my passport.

‘Remember, the animal goes on his bottom,’ Mummy slurs. Despite being out of her head on enough drugs to secure world peace for twenty minutes, she is still in my corner, cheering me on, waving an imaginary sign that reads: ‘You can do it!’

I flounder my way through the entire process of putting your nappy on but I somehow complete that part of the task. Next, I slide your Babygro underneath you. I’m OK-ish threading your legs through, but not your arms. They terrify me. Actually, threading any infant’s arm through the sleeve of a Babygro terrifies me ... let alone a newborn baby ... my newborn baby. Why aren’t gilets mandatory attire for infants?

A few minutes later, you’re dressed, which means I’ve completed my first task as a daddy.

One down, ten trillion to go.

Soon after, you and Mummy are relocated from theatre to recovery ward, where you both settle in before receiving a speedy breastfeeding tutorial.

Unsurprisingly, you guys nail it.

I use this as an excuse to take my leave and visit the bathroom, even though I don’t need to. I walk in, lock the door and burst into tears. I can’t remember uncontrollably sobbing like this since I was a child.

After I’m done having my moment, I return to my family. Now that you’re dressed and fed, I can relax for a second and maybe see about returning to that cloud in the sky.

And return I do. It feels like only minutes have passed but in reality it’s a lot longer. One of the midwives approaches and says, ‘Hi. Just to let you know, it’s almost 10 p.m., which is when visiting hours end.’

‘I have to go home?’

‘I’m sorry, but yes.’

Now that you’re here, following a successful delivery, NHS regulations stipulate that partners can only be at the mum’s bedside between the hours of 10 a.m. and 10 p.m.

This doesn’t sit right with me, Arlo. Mummy can’t move, and you’re a newborn baby. I want to stay and look after my family, I want to cuddle my son and I want to remind Mummy how amazing she’s been through all of this.

I do not want to leave.

I’ve heard staff complain many times about how busy the wards are and how they don’t have enough midwives to look after all the mummies and their babies. It would make sense, to me at least, to allow partners to stay so they can help with the care.

But my view is irrelevant, and I have to go.

And so, with great reluctance, I say goodbye to you and Mummy for the night.

Fortunately, I’m leaving you in the care of yet another extraordinary midwife. She will watch over my family tonight: she will look after you, and she will look after Mummy.

Sleep well, my boy.

You’re gonna need it.

My First Day At Work

Wednesday, 20 November 2019

1 day old

I set two alarms for this morning, but I must have turned them both off in my sleep. Your Granny Smurf – my mummy, who’s temporarily living with us – wakes me at 8.40 a.m. with a coffee.

After a few seconds, it dawns on me that I’ve become the thing I’ve spent over two years dreaming about, the thing that doctors told me wouldn’t happen, the thing that I’ve wanted more than anything else in my history of wanting stuff.

I am a daddy. I am your daddy. I have a son.

What a feeling.

I drink my coffee and snap to it. There’s work to be done.

Mummy has sent me a summary of the first night. Apparently, you have excellent jaw functionality – a little too excellent. Mummy’s food factories already have several mechanical fault issues, which translates to ‘they fucking hurt’. She requires nipple shields.

Fast-forward thirty minutes, and I find myself in the vastness of an unknown wilderness – without a map. I’m sitting on the shop floor of Boots with a staff member, a young girl: my guide, I suppose, though she’s never been to this particular wilderness either. Together we’re trying to wrap our heads around the various nipple-shield products that are available. Neither of us has the foggiest about them so I hedge my bets, buy two different versions of everything, and then make my way to the hospital. Worst-case scenario, I can suction the spares to the fridge and hang a couple of cute baby photos from them.

I tiptoe into the ward to find you and Mummy having a cuddle. Mummy has a smile on her face that, until 4.26 p.m. yesterday, I’d never seen her wear before. I savour the sight before announcing my presence.

‘Fancy a cuddle?’ she says.

Do I ever.

I lift you up and into my arms, and once again, I find myself transported to a place of deep serenity.

I could do this forever.

I debrief Mummy on my mission to acquire nipple shields without taking my eyes off you.

Soon after, a member of staff arrives to tell us that Arlo’s grandmothers are here to see him, but staff have refused them entry because it’s not visiting hours – something I know they’re aware of because I told them myself. I head out to meet your Granny Smurf and Mummy’s mummy, Granny Feeder.

‘I thought a box of chocolates would work,’ says Granny Feeder, living up to her nickname.

‘Ten points for effort,’ I say. ‘But you need to come back at four.’

I’m back in the ward with Mummy, and it’s time for me to change my first dirty nappy. The contents resemble thick black tar. Don’t worry, this is normal and expected. Your first poo is a meconium one, made up of fluid and cells that you ingested while in the womb. It’s one of the most freakish sights I’ve ever encountered, which is not an insubstantial claim given that I’ve just witnessed childbirth.

Yay.

A natural I am not. My movements are clunky and uncoordinated, and I have little confidence. You’re crying as well, which does not help matters. The pitch is like a thousand tiny pins rapidly and repeatedly stabbing at my eardrums like the needle on a sewing machine.

Mummy fails to conjure up even a particle of patience watching me fumble through a task that she could perform in mere nanoseconds, thanks to ten years of experience working in childcare. In her defence, she remains beyond exhausted from labour, and hearing your baby cry in distress is not a pleasant feeling.

‘Do you want some help?’ Mummy says.

‘No, stay where you are. I need to learn how to do this.’

I’m ignored. Mummy hobbles over and prepares to take the reins. But as she does, she accidentally knocks the cannula embedded in the back of her hand on to the side of your cot. And now her hand is bleeding. Several droplets of blood land on you, making the entire scene look like some sort of voodoo ceremony. Mummy starts crying, which allows me to keep hold of the reins until I’ve changed your nappy, for which I score a D-minus at best.

‘Did you bring the right-sized vests with you?’ Mummy says.

Shit! No, I didn’t. ‘Yeah ... about the vests ... you know, I was really hoping you’d bring that up. I sort of forgot them.’

‘Sort of forgot them?’

‘I did that funny thing where I meant to pack them to bring them with me but then I didn’t. Because I forgot.’

‘But the ones we’ve got here are too big.’

Damn it, Daddy will need to be better organised.

After things calm down, Mummy and I have a cuddle and we agree to take it an hour at a time. Once we’re all at home, and Mummy recovers from her surgery, we’ll have both space and time to adjust to being a family. Until then, we’ll have to stumble forward.

We spend the afternoon watching you sleep. The cot is made of transparent plastic, so we can see you at all times. I’m transfixed by the rise and fall of your chest. It’s hypnotic. As are the subtle movements in your face, creasing ever so slightly at intervals. Your nascent feet, legs, hands and body. Everything about you is brand new. And your tiny newborn fingers: they grip my index finger, telling me that you need me – as a guide to take you through the early years of your life. I will be that for you. And more. Your new life is a blank slate, an empty canvas, a chance to grow into something awe-inspiring and to achieve something astonishing. Everything is a possibility to you. Who will you become, what will you accomplish? None of us knows the answers yet, but the journey we will all take together in discovering them will be an incredible adventure.

At 4 p.m. the grannies return, accompanied by Grandad Tools (Mummy’s daddy) and your Auntie Lisa (Mummy’s sister).

The introduction is extraordinary. Not for the first time in the last twenty-four hours, I watch another person – in this case four people – fall instantly in love with you.

Soon after, I change your nappy for the second time today, and you urinate all over me. I’m neither surprised nor bothered, which is a good job, as I presume this will be happening often.

***

It’s evening, and you’re asleep. Today has zipped by quicker than a rabbit fleeing from a hungry fox. It won’t be long before I have to leave you again.

But not yet.

There is just enough time for Mummy and me to enjoy date night.

In the past, our dates have consisted of trips to the cinema and meals out.

But we’re not doing anything like that.

Tonight’s romantic activity sees us undergo a fun little exercise called colostrum harvesting. Colostrum is the first milk that a mummy produces after giving birth. It is full of nutrients and contains a high white blood cell count, equipping a baby’s immune system with enough heavy artillery to ward off any early nasties.

The harvesting process is simple: Mummy applies pressure to certain regions of her food factories, teasing out prized colostrum, while I arm myself with a sterilised syringe and linger nearby, ready to capture every precious drop.

Despite the simple mission brief, this is a delicate affair. Remember, Mummy underwent major surgery a little over twenty-four hours ago. In addition, you have done a number on poor Mummy’s milking parlours. I think the breastfeeding specialist referred to you as having ‘an aggressive suck’.

Nevertheless, Mummy begins to extract the first drop. She winces in pain, but I can’t see any colostrum.

‘There. Quickly, this really hurts,’ Mummy says

‘Where ... oh, I see it! Come here, you little fuck.’

‘Catch it.’

‘Stop talking then, dickhead!’

The droplet, in a desperate attempt to evade capture, constantly alters its speed, but it’s no match for my determination and skill set as I successfully suction the first drop in the syringe.

‘Why are you pulling that face?’ Mummy says, trying not to laugh.

‘I think it’s because shut up and stop questioning my methods, woman. Now, how about you get back to squeezing those tits? This syringe ain’t gonna fill itself.’

After a successful date night (we harvested 3 ml), I change your nappy for the third time today. I’m already getting better. I’m more relaxed. I even manage to avoid you pissing on me.

It’s now 10 p.m. and it’s time for me to leave. My first day of being a daddy is over. Only the rest of my life to go. To an outsider, it probably doesn’t amount to an event deserving global media coverage, or even a cursory one-liner mention in the back of the local paper, but to me, it’s a day that I will never forget. My first day of dadding.

A Curveball Of Boob-Shaped Proportions

Thursday, 21 November 2019

2 days old

Your jaw action has gone Super Saiyan on poor Mummy’s boobies. The damage has left a sight that I can only describe as two miniature erupting volcanoes with molten magma pouring over the summits and flowing down the sides. In case you haven’t made the link, the magma in the volcano image represents the blood you’ve drawn from Mummy. You’ve drawn so much of the stuff that you’re now throwing up blood clots.

Imagine our fright when we witnessed that for the first time.

The breastfeeding specialist advises that we book you in to see a cranial osteopath. She says that the shape of your skull is causing your jaw to operate in the way that it is, and that a cranial osteopath may be able to do something about it. Just don’t ask me what. She also says that, for the time being, we should accept feeding support from a bottle to allow Mummy time to heal. Mummy is gutted, but I tell her that it’s all but physically impossible to continue this way. On a brighter note, I’ve managed to bring the correct-sized vests in for you today, so at least your clothes fit.

I’m still struggling to thread your little Arlo arms through the sleeves of your Babygros. While we’re on the subject, I don’t like working with hats or mittens either. They’re so fucking fiddly, and it’s stressing me out.

The Matriarch is supporting my anxiety by laughing uncontrollably – or partially uncontrollably because of the pain she’s still in from the surgery. Instead of suspending laugher altogether, she’s changed her style of laughter to reduce the convulsions that so often accompany a good giggle. The result is that Mummy now laughs like Eddie Murphy, which then makes Daddy laugh.

Another nappy change for Daddy, Arlo, and it’s my most challenging yet. I’m contending with the following variables: you being sick, you shitting, you pissing and you flailing both legs. Oh, and also crying. All of this is happening simultaneously.

This is frustrating because if you stop doing all these things at once or even some of these things, then these episodes will pass quickly and I can return you back into the loving arms of one of your parents.

But you’re unable to grasp this. I guess that’s understandable, considering you are only two days old.

The afternoon passes much the same as yesterday, with your parents smiling, cuddling you or watching you sleep. It would have been a perfect afternoon, save for Mummy receiving some blood-test results that were not what we wanted. In short, they’re still indicating that her blood is ‘deranged’ (Mummy had pre-eclampsia before she gave birth to you). I have no idea how the NHS defines deranged blood, but I know that it means you and Mummy need to remain in the hospital again tonight.

For the third night in a row, I begrudgingly say goodbye and leave my family.

Home Is Where The Heart Is

Friday, 22 November 2019

3 days old

Please come home today.

You’re three days old, but I don’t feel like we’ve properly begun parenting yet. We’ve changed nappies, clothed you, fed you and cuddled you a lot, but it doesn’t feel authentic with all this taking place in the hospital.

Mummy tells me that you guys had a rough night and that she didn’t have as much support from the midwives as she had the previous two nights, resulting in Mummy climbing in and out of bed to check on you on many occasions. No easy feat given her present condition.

At one stage, you may have urinated on your face. If you’re proud of your accomplishment, then you are in good company.

Breastfeeding is still a no-go area. Even the specialist winced when she examined Mummy, telling her that she needs to rest for a few days before perhaps hand-expressing milk if she wants to continue on this route, which she does.

Mummy’s empathy towards Daddy’s ineptitude remains AWOL. She laughed so hard when you projectile-vomited over me that I had to ask a midwife to check Mummy’s C-section stitches.

She’s relentless.

Her stitches were fine, by the way, but I’ll tell you something else: that Eddie Murphy laugh isn’t as fucking funny as it was yesterday.

***

It’s the afternoon, and the on-shift midwife arrives to check Mummy’s blood pressure. We’ve been waiting all day for this. If the results are normal – or non-deranged – then Daddy can bring you and Mummy home.

Please come home today.

I worry how Mummy will handle having to stay another night in the hospital. Last night was tough on both of you.

The blood-pressure machine takes a few seconds to do what it needs to do before a beep signals completion.

The results are in ...

You’re coming home.

Yes!

***

Two facts about Daddy and cars: I’ve never owned one, despite holding a licence since I was seventeen, and Mummy likes to do all the driving in our relationship. I only drive when I’m without Mummy. Keep those facts in mind as I place you in your car seat and then lower Mummy, who is wincing in pain, into the passenger side of the vehicle.

One of